The darkness in Ramela’s mind didn’t last long. It was pushed aside by a searing, white-hot heat that rushed through her veins like liquid fire. When her eyes finally snapped open, they were no longer the soft, hesitant brown of a timid viscount’s daughter. They were sharp, cold, and gleaming with a predatory intelligence.
Scarlett O’Hara took her first breath in ten years.
Finally, she thought, flexing Ramela’s delicate fingers. A body. A pulse. A voice.
The transition was so seamless that no one in the ballroom noticed—until the peace was shattered.
"Oh!" a shrill cry rang out.
A young noblewoman, Baroness Sheryl, purposefully lurched forward, slamming her shoulder into Ramela.
A tall crystal flute of dark red wine tipped, splashing across the front of Ramela’s dark pale rose gown gown, staining the silk like a fresh wound.
"My dress!" Sheryl shrieked, her voice loud enough to draw every eye in the room. She dropped the glass, letting it shatter at Ramela’s feet, and immediately began to sob theatrical tears.
"Why would you do that? You saw me walking here! You bumped into me on purpose, Ramela!"
The ballroom fell silent. The music died down as the guests began to whisper, their eyes judging the "clumsy" daughter of the Viscount.
Ramela—now possessed by Scarlett—didn't flinch. She didn't cry. She stood perfectly still, looking down at the red stain on her chest with a chillingly calm expression.
"Ramela!" Julian, her fiancé, stepped forward. But he didn't go to her side. He stepped toward Elara, placing a comforting hand on the Baroness's shoulder.
He looked at Ramela with nothing but disgust. "Have you no shame? Not only are you a social embarrassment, but now you’re attacking guests? Apologize to the Baroness at once!"
Scarlett felt a surge of Ramela’s lingering hurt, but she crushed it. She looked at Julian—this pathetic, social-climbing man—and then at the smirking girl crying fake tears.
"Apologize?" Scarlett spoke. The voice was Ramela’s, but the tone was terrifyingly different. It was deep, melodic, and carried a weight of authority that made the air in the room grow heavy.
She took a slow step forward, crunching a piece of the broken glass under her heel.
"You," Scarlett said, pointing a wet, wine-stained finger at Sheryl.
"You purposefully tilted your wrist at a fifteen-degree angle to ensure the wine hit my chest rather than the floor. And you," she turned her icy gaze to Julian, "my 'fiancé.' You stand beside a woman who just assaulted me and demand I bow to her?"
Julian blinked, taken aback by the sudden sharpness in her eyes. "How dare you speak to me like—"
"Silence," Scarlett commanded. The word felt like a physical slap. "I am bored of this performance. If you wanted my attention, Baroness, you didn't need to waste good wine. You simply had to ask for a lesson in manners."
Scarlett reached out, her movements lightning-fast. She grabbed a full glass of champagne from a passing servant's tray and, with a terrifyingly graceful flick of her wrist, emptied the entire contents over Sherly’s perfectly styled hair.
The ballroom gasped. Sheryl ’s fake crying turned into a genuine scream of shock.
"There," Scarlett smiled, and for the first time in a decade, the "Wicked Woman" felt truly alive.
"Now we both have something to cry about. Julian, do not bother coming to my carriage. Consider our engagement as dead as my patience."
As she turned to walk away, her eyes drifted toward the high throne where crown prince Edward and crown princess Elizabeth watched the commotion with furrowed brows.
Soon, Scarlett promised silently. The wine is just the beginning. Next time, it will be your blood.
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